


A Gladiator's Tale

by Lifotni



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: And Armor, Canon-Typical Violence, Cultural Differences, Cybertron is Ruled by Kingdoms and Lordships, Gladiator fighting, Injury, Knight AU, M/M, Megatron Has Already Been Through Hell and Doesn't Know How To Quit, Robots in Clothing, Steampunk elements, Sword Fighting, The Gladiatorial Pits Have Been Gentrified, This Is Going To Be A Wild Right Just Sit Tight, fake identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:55:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26433757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lifotni/pseuds/Lifotni
Summary: Megatron has pulled himself from the gladiatorial pits in Kaon with his closest brethren at his side. He knew he could only be a servant for a knight during his travels about Cybertron for so long, but when his lord unexpectedly dies, Megatron, Soundwave, and Impactor devise a plan to finally take their fates into their own hands.This is a story of district separation of classes on Cybertron. One is either a have, sparked to a noble family, or a have not, a peasant where one only has a hope of changing their stars by using the tip of a rusty sword and a tarnished shield. This is also a love story, one about fighting for the one so reluctantly loved.
Relationships: Megatron/Orion Pax
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	1. Not of Noble Spark

**Author's Note:**

> Has anyone seen the movie A Knight's Tale? Hopefully not so that I can fool you with originality. 
> 
> Credit for Soundwave being non-binary goes to Seekingjets. I adore their stories and can now only see Soundwave as such. Please read their series Bad Business. 
> 
> I want us all to look at the incredible talent of our fandom and the art that has been produced over the many years of robots outfitted in clothing for their mental imagery of the characters in this story. We all know the ones. 
> 
> And thus, without further adieu and no more gilding the lily, I give you A Gladiator's Tale.

Throughout many of Cybertron’s city-states, a once brutal sport has arisen to be embraced by all classes of society. For the highest nobles and low peasant fans alike, the stadiums are open to every mecha although the prestige and notoriety of competing in Cybertron’s sponsored events is reserved only for the noble of spark. These noble mecha were thus called knights. 

For one such knight, a final blow at the Stadium in Theta has proven to spell his end. But for his young servant Megatron of Tarn, this twist of fate has written his beginning. 

…

“I’ve not seen him shift since he set there,” Megatron says, peering over to where their lord still remained in the shade out the evening sun. The sour scent of spilt energon has perforated the air. “Should I rouse him?”

Soundwave walks up to stand at his right with their arms crossed, fixing their visored gaze on the slouching mech. "No. I will." 

Megatron steps aside to let the mecha past, wondering just how well their mask blocks the smell of waste.

Soundwave kneels next to Sir Caliber and nudges the larger mech's shoulder. Megatron leans to his left to watch, frowning as Soundwave lifts their lord's mask to see his optics. They set their fingers along his main fuel line, feeling for his pulse.

Soundwave sighs and lets the mask fall back down over his face with a clatter. They shake their helm. "Sir Caliber: dead."

Megatron's brow jumps. "Dead…?" 

Heavy footsteps walk up from behind. "Well, that was our luck," Impactor comments as he strides up. He wears a lethargic smile and rests his large, grease-covered hand on Megatron's shoulder. "If Caliber can stay on his damn peds this time, we'll win - ugh," he lifts his palm to his face to block his bent nose. "Who’s done -?" 

"Sir Caliber: _dead_ ," Soundwave repeats solemnly, looking over their deceased lord’s body. He had no visible damage from the last fight. He only complained of pain... in his chest. 

Soundwave sighs. 

"Wha-?" Impactor vents, hand collapsing down. "Nah, no he ain’t -" 

Soundwave falls back as Impactor stomps to their side, taking their place beside the knight’s limp frame. 

"Caliber!" he shouts into his audial. "Lord, the last match - !" Getting no response, he shoves the body's shoulder and grits his denta. "Fuckin' - get _up_!" 

Soundwave gets to his peds behind him and brushes off their trousers. "Priest: must be notified," they monotone, ignoring the clatter of armor and Impactor's steam of curses. He picks up Caliber's limp arm and shakes it violently only to toss back at his side.

"Impactor!" Megatron admonishes, shouting at the mech threatening colorful methods of torture at the armored body lying at his peds. 

"What!?" Impactor exclaims, whirling around on his peds with hands outstretched. “What, Megatron!? I haven't fueled in five fucking days!" 

"Impactor: none of us have," Soundwave gravels under their mask, voice charged by rarely conveyed emotion. Their optics linger on Caliber's collapsed frame and the sight of their deceased liege drowns out the sound of approaching pedsteps coming from behind. 

"Soundwave -" Megatron suddenly warns, alerting his friend with a nudge to their shoulder. 

Soundwave turns to acknowledge him and they both instinctively meet shoulders to block the view of the scene behind them as Theta Stadium's announcer walks up to their camp with her guards at her either sides. 

"Where is Sir Caliber?" the finely clad femme asks, looking between the two mechs standing before her. "He will be absent for his opponent's introduction." 

"He'll arrive in a moment," Megatron answers her, folding his hands behind his back. 

The announcer frowns and glances over the mechs' heads, attempting to see the source of the commotion transpiring behind them. She raises a finger to her optics and begins lifting her golden visor. 

Soundwave reacts swiftly, getting onto the tips of their peds to hinder her view. There is a ring of metals colliding, followed shortly by Impactor spitting curses to offend Caliber's lineage.

The femme scowls back down at them. "Sir Caliber must be at the gate or he is assumed to forfeit." 

"He will be there,” Megatron promises swiftly, forcing a smile. 

“See to it.” She gives them one last look up and down before starting back towards the stadium, the trim of her tunic flowing elegantly in the soft breeze. 

Soundwave folds their hands under their chin. “Megatron: how -” 

“I’ll fight,” Megatron speaks softly, shoulders deflating once the announcer is out of audialshot. "Help me take his armor off." 

Soundwave buries their visor in their palms.

" _What_?" Impactor's voice rises to an octave. His burning optics follow Megatron as they gray mech lowers to his knees beside him. 

"His armor! Help me put it on, Impactor." 

"Are you - did you get knocked down and fall daft as well? His armor won't even fit you!" 

"I'll fight in his place! _Just_ -" Megatron begins, halting himself before frustration boiled to his throat. "If we must forfeit, we’ll not be fueling for five _more_ days. Now help me! Soundwave, please - we’ll need a change of clothes." 

Impactor grumbles, but makes no further comment and gets on Caliber's other side to begin stripping his motionless arm. Pieces come off with practiced ease, both he and Megatron having helped Caliber put on and remove his armor hundreds of times before the mech chose today to keel over. 

Soundwave goes to the trunk outside the lord’s tent and retrieves Caliber’s spare tabard, working the finely embroidered fabric between their nimble fingers. They trace their thumb over the designs that they had threaded themself, repairing and replacing what had been marred and energon stained over the years. 

"Location: not Kaon." they say, panning over.

Megatron only glances over his shoulder, optics darkening while Impactor fits a greave to his outstretched leg.

"Name: not Sir Megatron of Tarn. Not Prince of Tarn. Title is not _Prime_ or _Lord_ of Tarn. Not of noble spark: excluded from competing -" 

"Do you think I've not gone my _entire_ existence knowing that!" he exclaims, shoving off his brown tunic to get the padding on. 

Soundwave watches as the stained tunic is tossed aside next to the remains of last night’s fire. They sigh and pat the dust off the old tabard. 

A shadow falls over Megatron while he is removing Caliber’s gauntlets.

"Stop." 

Blue optics clench shut. "Soundwave, I will take the pillory if we are found -" 

"Megatron: stop and put this on." 

Megatron lowers Caliber’s hand and finally looks up. He turns at the waist and shields his optics from the sun, squinting to make out Soundwave holding up the relatively clean tabard. 

Soundwave gestures their head as they gather the fabric up in their hands. 

Megatron stands up and Soundwave fits the opening over his head and helm. They stand back to let it drape down, watching keenly as Megatron's frame is shrouded everywhere but his arms, the sides of his legs, and half-greaved shins. It is oversized for him, Caliber having stood at least half a head taller than Megatron with broader shoulders and a thicker chest. But with the padding and prayer that no one will think to inspect too closely, the spectators and his opponent would be hard-pressed to suspect an impersonation. 

"They'll not suspect a thing," Impactor comments, reading Soundwave's scrutinizing visor while he brings over the breastplate. He takes off Megatron's miner’s helm and tosses it aside, needing it removed to fit the straps over his head and onto his shoulders. 

"This will do," Soundwave hesitantly agrees. Impactor hands them Caliber's helm next and with no time for ceremony, they push it down on Megatron’s head and fit the helm in place. 

"You know I can do this," Megatron says, tilting his head to catch Soundwave’s hidden optics while they straighten the helm and lower the visor over his face to cover all but his optics. 

They look up to see the thrill pulsing within his gaze, conveying the mech's fettered excitement beyond his concealed faceplate. 

Cheers and trumpets come from the stadium and the opposing knight's herald began their lord's extravagant titles. 

Soundwave pats Megatron's chest. "Stay on your peds." 

… 

A fanfare can be heard for well over a mile around, the musicians playing an upbeat tempo used at the start of the last match.

Megatron has to hold the helm to his head while running to the stadium’s gate, lest it bounces off with his long strides right in front of the stadium's attendants and guards standing outside. Both Soundwave and Impactor follow closely at his heels, carrying Caliber's sheathed sword and lugging along his paint chipped shield. 

The announcer spies them beyond the gate and waves for it to be opened, allowing the trio just enough time for Impactor to strap the shield on Megatron’s arm and for Soundwave to pull the sword from its sheath. 

Megatron takes the tarnished weapon into his grasp and works his fingers around the thick grip. The weight of it is not new in his hand. He has held the blade many times when Caliber offered it to him when they would spar. 

"Don’t dare try to strike him. They’ll not have any of your Kaonite slag," Impactor says, giving one last tug to check the shield's straps. "Just block his blows, keep - _mph -_ on your damned peds, keep that blasted head on your shoulders, and if I'm feeling nice later," he grins, giving Megatron a slap to the back of the helm, "I just might buy you a shot at that bar we passed by." 

“I may hold you to that,” Megatron says, opening and closing his shield hand’s fist. He takes a deep ventilation. “...I’ve been waiting too long for a chance like this.”

Impactor purses his chapped lips and peers over at Soundwave from around Megatron’s shoulder. The quiet mecha keeps their gaze forward. “You’ve been waiting for Caliber to get slagged too?” he snorts.

Megatron pays him no heed, stepping forward and focusing on the other side of the arena while committing the sound of the cheers from the mecha lining all corners of the stadium to memory.

Sir Messa, Theta’s reigning lord’s cousin raises his shield - vacant of dents and worn paint - to the nobles as he comes to stand at his marked place. His armor gleams while he bows to his cousin and the attending families of several other competing knights. 

Soundwave presses a hand to Megatron's back. " _Go_."

Megatron’s palm begins sweating coolant on the grip of the sword, sending a bolt of apprehension about it slipping from his hand as he steps over the divot the gate has created in the ground. The line is only a stride away from the warm light pouring over the arena’s floor, making the imported sand covering the ground glisten like midday stars from the generous portions of silica. 

A drip still holding strong from last night’s acid rainstorm falls from one of the spikes at the bottom of the gate as he passes under. It lands squarely on the tip of his helm’s brow and Megatron crosses his optics at it’s sudden appearance. He blinks when the drip falls under his visor and splashes onto his twice-broken nose, mixing with the coolant collecting on his faceplate. 

The mecha on the peasants’ side of the stadium join each other in boisterous cheers when he comes into view. It is common for them to take the sides of their lord's opposition, much to the nobles’ ire if their frowns and slouching positions in their finely crafted seats is anything to judge by. 

Megatron pans his gaze over the crowds as he approaches his place at one-third the way across the floor. People of all sectors of society attend the gladiatorial arena, populating the stands without dropping a single shanix from their fingers. He even spies several younglings, bright-eyed from their vantage atop their parents’ shoulders. Never would he dare see such a sight in Kaon’s gladiatorial pits, not where swords are resharpened before each match and fists have spikes on their knuckles. 

He grips the sword tighter at the thought, ignoring the pangs of phantom injuries long ago healed and scarred over. 

Three peasants nearby catch his sight while he looks around, sword and shield fallen to his respective sides. One of them is even standing bare-chested as he leans against the railing. Megatron swallows, realizing his mouth had begun to collect oral lubricant at the sight of he and his friends’ cubes being held so carelessly over the edge. 

The mecha playing the fanfare along the nobles’ side of the stands lower their instruments as the announcer steps gracefully onto her platform. Her arrival gets the stadium attendee’s volume to plummet to the adequate decibel range for her voice to carry over them. She points her outstretched, well-polished hands towards the mechs on each side of the arena, one a knight and the other doing his damndest to stand tall inside all the armor. 

Impactor clasps Soundwave’s shoulder, startling the reserved mecha from their thoughts. He is practically wheezing, covering his near hysterics with his hand over his mouth. “He’s not going to - Primus almighty, he’s forgotten to bow to the lord...” 

The announcer folds her hands in front of her. “The final match is Sir Messa of Theta versus Sir Caliber of Praxus. The current score favors Caliber with ten blows to seven. Lord Messa, are you ready?”

Messa beats the jeweled pommel of his sword against his bronze-trimmed breastplate and takes up a fighting stance, heels digging into the sand. 

The announcer turns to Megatron, gaining the mech's attention from the stands. “Sir Caliber, are you ready?” 

Megatron does as Caliber would do at the start of each of his matches and raises the sword into the air. 

The announcer turns sharply on her heels to face the Lord of Theta for his approval to begin the match. He nods his helm to her, the twisted band of precious metal adorning the contours of his brow sparkling above his well-nourished optics. 

She turns back to the arena and a young mecha with a flag walks in the very middle of the arena. They hold the flag up, prepared to wave it down. “Knights, stand at the ready!” 

Megatron steps into his stance, tensing his shield arm. 

And the flag drops in a flurry of Theta’s colors. 

The mecha runs back to the announcer with it and Megatron’s optics widen in the window of his helm when he sees Messa has already begun charging towards him.

He quickly pulls up his shield and fixes his peds in place, bending at the knees to block Messa’s first blow. 

The closest he could relate it to was thunder, the strike of the steel sword colliding with his shield and working up his arm to rock his frame. But he holds fast, lowering his shield to peer over it in time to see Messa gathering himself up for his next attack. 

Megatron grits his denta at the cacophony of familiarity and side steps so as to not remain in one place too long and give his opponent yet another advantage than the knight already has. He keeps his optics fixed on him, sword balanced on the top of the shield with its tip aimed directly between Messa's glowing optics past his bronze-trimmed visor. 

Impactor grumbles from his vantage beside Soundwave on the attendant’s platform. 

"Did - _did_ he not hear me? I know I said it." Impactor crosses his arms. "All that bastard needs do is keep the damn shield up." 

Soundwave lifts their fingers dismissively to their friend. "Megatron: needs this." 

Messa makes another swipe at Megatron from the middle of the arena, growling from behind his own shield when his sword is swiftly blocked yet again. He was sure Caliber had taken quite the hit in his previous match, now surprised that the mech could still react so quickly. 

Megatron continues glaring back at him from over his shield. He loops his sword once, twice, catching the flash the reflection against the steel creates out of the corner of his optic. 

He only needs to hold strong for another minute. Messa could even strike his helm and they would still be the tournament's victors. 

He glances over to Soundwave and Impactor standing on the attendants' platform and raises his sword from the shield. 

"The hell's he doing…?" Impactor unclenches his jaw just to say. He throws his hand onto his helm, recognizing the stance Megatron keeps stepping into. "Ah, fuck." 

Megatron watches Messa's peds and waits for when the mech prepares his next attack - when he'll expose his torso just long enough for him to strike. 

Messa huffs under his visor and Megatron vaults forward, making the other mech's orange optics flare wide in surprise.

There are shocked exclamations from the stands on both sides when swords spark as they meet between the knight and the young gladiator. 

Megatron bares his denta behind his visor, optics fixed on Messa, trying to spot any hint of his next motives. He feels his opponent's sword shaking against his own and pushes it aside, holding his shield up for the inevitable counter-attack. 

There were few mechs who utilized shields in the pits. Megatron was not of their number, and thus the weight of the shield impeded on his favored tactics. It was tempting to just cut the straps and - 

_CLANG_

Megatron inhales sharply in surprise and stumbles back as the visor of Caliber's helm is suddenly dented in. 

"Ah, fuck," Impactor curses, pinching his nasal ridge.

Soundwave gasps and covers their chest with their hand. They clutch at their tunic, knuckles turning five shades paler. 

He holds his shield aloft, only able to see with one optic past the warped metal. Messa moves to make one more attack, but halts in his tracks when the trumpet sounds for the end of the match. 

"Sir Caliber is the victor with ten strikes to eight!" the announcer exclaims, her voice sounding muffled to Megatron's audials. 

Megatron freezes when clapping and the stomping of peds on the stand's metal floors begins from all around him. 

He turns to look back at the peasant stands, peering out with one optic to the colorful crowd as they begin to chant Caliber's name. His sword and shield fall back to his sides when he happens to notice one of the younglings waving his way. Fists loosen and the tip of his sword taps the ground. 

"Sir Caliber!" the announcer shouts, pulling Megatron's attention back. "Come forward." 

"Alright, I got ya," a voice to his right says and Megatron feels Impactor grip his arm. "Think you've finally broken that nose off under there, Meg." 

They begin walking forward and Soundwave takes the sword from his hand to put it back in its sheath. Megatron looks over to them as they all approach the announcer's platform. Other knights and their attendants are filing into the arena, taking their places in accordance to how they ranked. 

"Right here," Impactor instructs just loud enough for Megatron to hear his muffled voice. "No, over a bit. Yes. Now stand still." 

Megatron opens his mouth to reply, only to suddenly have a mouthful of warm energon. He raises his hand to feel the dented visor and grimaces at the sound of cracking. 

"Oh, you'll be feeling that in a bit," Impactor chuckles quietly. 

"Silence," Soundwave speaks up on Megatron's other side. "Repairs: will be afterward..." 

It's then that he registers the wet warmth dripping down his face from his nose. Or what is left of it if Impactor is correct. 

The announcer presents each knight down from fifth place, giving each the time to bow to the Lord of Theta. 

"Sir Caliber, remove your visor,” the attendant orders. “We've been exposed to plenty of energon here, but we thank you for censoring." 

Megatron lifts a gauntleted fist and taps the side of his helm. "My lord..." he begins, voice stifled. "The last blow has dented my visor to my faceplate. I cannot raise it at the moment." 

There is a chuckle from one of the nights to his right.

The announcer looks up to the lord of Theta. The mech shrugs, a smirk even upon his face in amusement of the mech's plight. 

The announcer sighs and straightens back on her heels. She looks to her liege. 

"My lord, I present to you your champion." 

The gilded mech stands and bows his helm down to him and Megatron can barely see the stadium attendant as one comes to stand before him.

“Sir Caliber... take your prize.” 

Megatron tries to look down to see, leaning back, but Soundwave takes a hold of his hand and guides it for him, bringing his fingers to grasp the tournament's trophy as it rests on a cushion held out by an attendant. 

"Hold it up," Soundwave whispers. 

Megatron does so, raising whatever the trophy he is grasping some component of for the crowd to see. They cheer shortly, and Megatron feels a hand at his back and bends over in a stiff bow. All three mecha try to pay no mind to the soft laughter amongst the nobles. 

… 

"Well, thank those lucky stars of yours. Looks like you’ll get to keep your nose," Impactor says once they unscrewed the hinges of the visor and carefully removed it from Megatron's faceplate. 

There are energon splatters all about his face and the breastplate had a dull-blue, dried stream from what had dripped from his chin in the arena till they could safely get it off him until soundwave was quick to clean it off.

"Caliber: did not break his face,” they had said while wiping it down. 

Soundwave now sits in front of Caliber's trunk, partitioning the shanix Impactor haggled from a passerby on the road for the trophy. There is a gray and black cybercat laying in their lap, purring and gently headbutting their chest for attention. 

Fifteen shanix each. That would be enough to supply each mecha for about a month’s travels.

They pick up the cat and nuzzle the top of her head. "Megatron: prefer the surgeon or to do repairs here?" 

Megatron does not deign to answer for a moment, lying still on his back to keep down the pressure of the energon that had been pouring from his broken nose for the better half of an hour. 

Without a word, he lifts an unarmored arm and points at the ground beneath him. 

"Alright," Impactor sighs, rolling up his sleeves. "Just keep layin' there - and pay no mind to the mech sittin' on ya. And I swear, if ya fuckin’ punch at me again, I’ll break it for the fourth time."

Megatron puts his hands under his helmed head, having replaced Calibers for his miner's helm once they returned to camp and could strip the armor and tabard off. 

"When does the priest get here, ‘Wave?" 

Soundwave glances over to Caliber's body, now laying in a more dignified position with his hands folded over his chest. They pet their cat’s head while they look back towards the stadium, knowing that is where mecha clad in crimson will be coming from.

“Any moment now.” 

“Huh,” Impactor snorts as he steps over Megatron to straddle his torso. “Let’s hope they don’t think anything too randy at this.” 

Megatron rolls his optics and braces himself when Impactor fits his crooked nose between the edge of his palms. 

“Count of three. One… two… _three_!” 

There is a sickeningly wet crack as Impactor jerks his hands, getting his fingers to line up straight with Megatron’s face. 

Megatron groans loudly and curses behind his grit denta, optics welling with coolant that he is quick to away once Impactor releases him and stands back up.

Impactor chuckles and offers his friend a hand.

The gray mech reluctantly takes it and Impactor flashes the space where he is missing a denta, chuckling at Megatron's attempt at cursing his parentage. 

“Wouldn’t be far from the truth,” he replies, setting his hand on his hip as he watches Megatron lumber away. 

Ravage jumps from Soundwave’s arms and follows after him. 

…

The three mecha visited a local tavern that night, sitting down wearily at a back table with low lighting.

“Did you really bring her inside?” Impactor groans when he notices Soundwave peeking under their coat. They’ve placed a small dish on the table while the group waits for their energon to arrive. 

“ _Yes_ ,” they glare up at Impactor in reply just as Ravage’s yellow optics peer out. “Area has turbofoxes.” 

Megatron slouches in his wobbly chair with his head resting back, thankful for the low lighting of the table Soundwave chose so the developing bruises under his optics aren’t so obvious to those passing by. 

The mecha sitting across from him reaches into their pocket and looks around over their shoulder at the other patrons before pulling out a bag of shanix. 

“Forty-five shanix. Minus three for two day’s meals,” Soundwave informs, placing the bag on the table. “Fourteen each?” 

Impactor shrugs. “Sounds good to me. That last one going to Meg for taking one for the team?” 

Soundwave nods, untying the bag to begin counting the tarnished silver coins inside. 

Megatron peers out the waved glass window. One of its panels is cracked, but he can still see the stars outside in the cloudless sky. 

“We can do this…” he starts.

“What?” Impactor barely hears him, pocketing his own share as soon as Soundwave puts the coins in front of him. “Kid, you’ve already done it.” 

“Yes, but -” 

Impactor suddenly bows his head reverently, hands clasping together to mock prayer when one of the tavern’s servers finally comes to their tables with three cubes of energon and two glasses of high-grade balanced on a tray. 

The mecha places the cubes and glasses before them and Impactor reaches to carefully put one of the high-grades in front of Megatron. The rich, glowing liquid had been poured to the very top. 

“Alright, y’all. Ya gonna have anything else?” they ask in an accent Megatron couldn’t even dream of placing, despite knowing he’d heard it before. 

“Only that hand,” Impactor raises his gaze to say while he grips his high-grade, looking up at them with his best attempt at a smolder plastering his face, “‘cause you just made yourself the light of my miserable life.” 

The mecha lowers the tray to their side and smiles down at him, paying no mind to Soundwave as they covertly pour energon into the small dish and bring it up to their chest. 

“Sweetspark, I get told that about a half-dozen times a night.” 

“Ah no…” Impactor pouts, shoulder falling. “Well, are any of ‘em ever as cute as me? Missing as many denta as me? I know they’ve never been as hungry as me,” he says, fixing his optics on their face when they arch a brow down at him. 

Megatron takes his second gulp from his cube while watching Ravage under Soundwave’s coat. She sticks out her little black tongue to lick up her energon. 

“Hm,” the server shrugs, cocking their hip. “I don’t know. You may’ve broken a record or two.”

“Well, if you’ve the time later, how about you and I go n’ see if I can break a few more, eh?” 

The server chuckles and turns back towards the tavern’s bar, tray fit under their arm. “We’ll see.”

They walk away and Impactor watches for a moment before turning back to the table. He sets the high-grade on the table, knowing he’ll need to down his cube first. He takes a few ventilations after the first few swallows, pausing to feel the immediate effects of the fuel as it runs down to his throat.

“Alright, what were ya saying, kid?” 

Megatron sits forward now that he has his company’s attention. “That we can do this… This,” he points a finger down on the table, “what we did today. That one trophy won us forty-five shanix alone n' Theta was only a minor tournament.” 

Impactor rolls his optics and puts an arm over the back of his chair to settle in.

Soundwave sets the empty dish back down on the table and buttons their coat back up. “Megatron: could have been killed today.” 

“Wouldn't be the first time.” 

“Then _executed_ ,” Impactor cuts in, leaning in to shout in whispers. “Tortured. Hung by your damn wrists or whatever invention they’ve conjured up for the crime of impersonation of a noble.” 

Megatron’s voice softens further. “The three of us have faced far worse threats before.” 

Soundwave looks up to him at that. 

“Yes, and never do I wish to go back to having to live like that. Listen - I know,” Impactor says, looking between Soundwave and Megatron both. “I know we’ve not let it settle in that Caliber’s finally croaked, but this ain’t the time to be gettin’ stupid.”

Megatron’s gaze falls and his optics dance as he thinks. The table falls silent and audials turn to the sound of the loud conversations around them and the music from a small band of mecha playing for tab coin on the other side of the tavern. 

Soundwave sits up in their chair and unclips their mask. They take it off to expose their face underneath, resting it onto the table and picking up their cube. “Armor: must be refitted. You are thinner than Caliber.” 

Megatron nods, optics brightening with his friend’s seeming interest. “We could earn enough for a decent smith.”

Soundwave sips from their cube and takes their time to swallow. “Megatron: cannot fight like a Kaonite.” 

Megatron sits forwards on the tables, leaning in towards his oldest friend. “I don’t see why not. The blades are dulled.”

“It is not a style that has any respect in the stadiums.” 

Soundwave nods.

“Forty shanix.” Megatron gestures to the coin purse. “Thirty-five, if we’ll even require that much, can carry us to the next tournament Caliber was going to compete in.” 

“Rodion,” Soundwave names for him, petting the top of Ravage’s head poking out of their coat.

“Well, we know they’ve an open slot now,” Impactor shrugs, taking a sip of his high-grade. He closes his optics at the taste. 

Megatron sighs, brow softening at the vague mention of their lord’s passing. “And it would take about three weeks to get there. That gives us time and then some to get ourselves in order.” 

“If we are found out?” 

Megatron sets his chin on his fist. “I’ll say that I lied to the both of you. That you couldn’t have been the wiser.” 

Impactor tilts his head. “You plan on using Caliber’s scrap?” 

Megatron glances at Soundwave first, attempting to read the phlegmatic mecha’s tired optics from where they are just visible past their visor. The scar on the right side of their face pulls down at the corner of their lip, but otherwise, they are unreadable. 

Soundwave stood only a few strides behind the priest while they spoke over Caliber’s body - or at least as much as they could offer the deceased knight then at least 5 hours dead. Megatron stood with them as Theta’s undertaker and assistants shrouded him and removed the body on a stretcher. 

They take another drink from their cube. “To be there in time, we must leave tomorrow,” they say, looking between Impactor and Megatron both. 

Megatron doesn’t attempt hiding his thankful smile. Soundwave holds out their arm to him when Megatron comes around and leans down to meet the brow of his miner’s helm to the top of their head and expresses a rare episode of affection. Sounwave squeezes his shoulder.

“Well, that was adorable, you two,” Impactor teases. He puts back the last of his high-grade and stands up, knocking his marred fist on the table as he turns to look back at the bar. He smiles when he spots the same tavern server looking in his direction. 

Reaching back into his pocket, Impactor retrieves the same fourteen shanix and sets them in front of Soundwave again. One begins to roll away and he catches it, deciding on it to be the one he’ll keep pocketed. “I’ll meet ya back at camp.”

Megatron huffs. “ _Please_ do not bring them back to camp.” 

“I won’t, I won’t!” Impactor grins, holding up his hands innocently and walking backwards, forcing a mech to move out of his way. “Wouldn’t want them to get scared off when they catch sight of _that_ ugly mug next to the fire!” 

Megatron grumbles and sits heavily back down at the table with Soundwave. The mecha still has their mask off and he can’t help but notice their optics are fixed on something. 

“What is it?” he asks, feeling for something on his chest.

Soundwave points to Megatron’s half-full glass of high-grade. 

“Absolutely,” he understands, immediately sliding it over and watching them down half the rest.


	2. Slow Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron, Impactor, and Soundwave set on the road for Rodion and meet an... interesting character along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thrive on comments, so if you feel so inclined, I would love to read your feedback! This chapter is where we will have insight into Megatron, Soundwave, and Impactor's view of their world around them and the climates of society about Cybertron's territories... and also get a sense of dread that they might just be getting in over their heads.

The itinerant band of mecha set to the road once Impactor eventually strayed his way back to camp. 

“Ah, you didn’t leave me behind!” he exults with a tad of lethargy, hands in his pockets and optics half-lidded. 

“Regrettably,” Megatron retorts, throwing his pack into the back of their inherited covered wagon to conceal the armor and sword lying hidden underneath. His hood is draped over his helm - an attempt to hide well-developed bruising. 

“Here.” Impactor grabs a hold of the trunk and hefts it onto the wagon. He pushes it back and Megatron does some last adjustments, not wanting the steel to rattle on the unlevel roads. 

Leaning forward, Impactor catches sight of Megatron's faceplate past his hood. He comes around and takes hold of the younger mech's face, making him hold still to get a look. “Ah, son, you’ve been busted to hell... But we managed to get that nose straightened up, huh?”

Megatron doesn’t tug from the older mech during the inspection, looking at Impactor’s chin while his helm is slowly turned this way and that. 

“Can ya smell?” 

Megatron shrugs. “Only dried up energon. It started leaking again when I woke.” 

“Must'a sat yourself up too fast.” He pats Megatron on the shoulder, “You’ll be fuckin’ again in no time - ah, now what the hell do you want?" 

Ravage jumps up to the tailgate and stares at them, yellow eyes looking up imploringly. There are bits of what looks to have been her morning prey still lingering around her mouth. Impactor picks her up in one large hand and gets her to climb on his shoulder.

"I know I’ve sinned," he says to her, going to pack his sleeping mat and few belongings. "I wasn't here last night to bestow you a chest to dig those talons of yours into. But listen - I have an excuse this time...” 

Soundwave listens fondly while putting the wagon’s reins onto their equin, Loom, that they've also newly inherited from Caliber's dwindled estate - a young beast of grey and black with green lattice-work plating along his hindquarters. Caliber had bought him at an auction after their previous equin was found lying dead one morning about three or so years ago now of old age. His name was far from original, it being bestowed from Loom’s tendency to wander around and _loom_ over the shoulders of mecha standing near him. 

Once Impactor ambles back with his pack, Megatron raises the tailgate and hooks on the latches to keep it in place.

It would be a four-day journey according to their frayed map of the surrounding territories till they reached the next town - one of the small villages they would pass through on the way. Theta so happened to be on the edge of thick wilderness with roads interspersedly cut through and forking in two at villages along their path.

Soundwave rode the wagon first, sitting with the equin’s reins in one hand lest something would inevitably spook the skittish creature and they would need to rein him in. 

“Have any ideas for this training we alluded to?” Impactor says once they are surrounded by tall trees on both sides, venturing past the area where Theta was growing saplings to recover past logging sites. “Or are we going with option Kaonite n’ beatin’ the slag out of some nobles?” 

Megatron was looking over to the dense forest surrounding them. Various birds call and fly overhead, little ones with iridescent pigment along their wings. 

“Nobles: train for strike flags in mind. And gold that collects dust,” Soundwave comments. 

Impactor glances over to Megatron, the corners of his mouth dipped down in surprise at Soundwave’s blunt wording. 

“Let it _out_ ,” he says back to them, an ounce of pride in his optics at the youngest’s indication they weren’t grieving over Caliber to the extent he assumed they were. Not that he was privy to detecting Soundwave’s lack of projected emotions like Megatron was gifted. 

“They’ve nothing to lose,” Megatron nods. “Not succeeding means they must return to their homes empty-handed.” 

“Who were they who’s creators would say ‘if you lose, come home on your shield or not at all’?” Impactor asks rhetorically, shrugging off his coat and waiting till Soundwave holds a hand up, tossing it up to them for it to be put back in the wagon. Soundwave makes a spot out of it for Ravage to lay on. “Was that Tarn?” 

“ _Tarn_ ,” Megatron says with inflection.

“Oh yes. Yes it was,” he nods as though being reminded. “Only thing on our’s mind in Kaon was not gettin’ our throats torn out.” 

“Entrails: on the ground,” Soundwave adds. 

“And our heads rolling around. Yes,” Impactor snorts. “And what?”

Megatron sticks his hands in his pockets. “These mecha have never walked into the arena with those sorts of stakes looming over their helms.” 

“And you think that offers you an advantage?” 

"I know it does." Megatron turned on his heels to walk backwards so he could see both of his comrades. “It offers us the opportunity to deceive them. We can create a name - hail from somewhere they’ll not know how to find on the map. Then how I fight won't be up to question.”

“Accents must be covered.” 

“Yes,” he nods knowingly, pressing his tongue to the top of his mouth. Soundwave was correct - a Tarnish accent would have his cover blown in a few short syllables. 

“Primus…” Impactor growls. “I’ll not be sounding like some damned silver spoon-fed Iaconian.” 

“Rodion: is a territory of Iacon.” 

“It's far enough outside it that they get all up in arms about it.” 

“You’ll not need to,” Megatron tries to comfort, knowing the skewer in his friend’s pride such an adjustment would be. Impactor had made it a mission all his own to maintain his accent. 

He turns around to resume walking forward. “Only I will. But it won’t be from damned _Iacon_.” 

“Where then? Crystal City?” Soundwave jest, evidently in rare form this morning.

“ _Fuck_. No.” 

“Absolutely _not_ ,” Megatron sneers. 

“Never seen so many conceited mecha all bunched up in one gilded pit at the same time…” Impactor trails off, then his face brightens like the burly mech was weighing his own thoughts. “But their high-grade was decent.” 

Megatron goes to the side of the road to pick up a fallen limb and lengthens his stride to catch back up. “You are mistaken for that mech you brought to camp and would not stop reiterating every detail about.” 

"For a _month_ ," Soundwave adds from behind. 

Impactor presses his palms to his cheeks at the memory. “ _Yes_. But he was Nyonian… He was - he was some of that barreled up engex they make up in the Manganese and pour ya just enough for a taste so ya don’t end up on your sorry aft in an alley.”

“Noch?” 

“That's the stuff,” Impactor snaps. “And they’ve those _thick_ accents in Nyon. How about imitating that?” 

Megatron shakes his helm. “The Prime is from Nyon.”

“N’ Primus bless her for it! The femme is the best thing to happen to us in decades.”

Megatron pulls out his knife to begin shaping the branch. “I’ll make something up. Mix of Tarnish and… somewhere else. Maybe Nyon.” 

They continue with idle conversation on down the road, falling into comfortable silences on occasion. Soundwave switched their spot on the wagon with Impactor and the mech unsurprisingly began to nod off. He leaned his face on his chin and would jump awake when a wheel would roll over a bump. They pass by only a few other traveling parties, one of them even a steam-powered vehicle pulling a trailer behind it. Impactor took hold of Loom’s reins while it passed by, unsure of how he would react to the sound of the engine. 

Impactor traded off with Megatron once he got too aggravated with not being able to catch any recharge and they continued on until coming to an ancient bridge crossing over a clear stream. The sun was well into setting over the forest by that time, casting them in fading light. 

They stopped there for a night, making camp in a small clearing where many past travelers appeared to have done the same. 

Two nearby fallen trees served as places for them to all sit on either side of the fire, Soundwave taking a spot next to Impactor on the longer of the two. Megatron chose to still work at the stick with his knife, shaping it into what was obviously going to function for sparing practice. 

“We should create a coat of arms,” Megatron begins once they have settled. 

“Do you need one?” Impactor asks while poking at the fire with a twig to adjust one of the bigger logs. 

Soundwave nods while looking down at their embroidery. Their needle flashes in the firelight with every quick pass up through the fabric. “All knights have coats of arms.” 

Impactor rolls his optics and sets his elbows on his knees. “Alright, so what are you thinkin’?”

Megatron pressed a stick along his makeshift sword, removing splinters from what would be the handle. “Not a cliche. All the knights use the same fauna standing up on their hind legs biting on arrows or other nonsense,” he says, lifting his hand flippantly. 

“Well then you both ought to grab a scroll or two and start sketching,” Impactor says, patting a hand gently on Soundwave’s shoulder so as not to jostle them. They were certainly the most artistic among the party, the current design of their embroidery and the outline they are using included.

“We will think of something,” they reply, switching out the color of their thread for violet.

... 

“A bit of ol’ time’s sake, yes?” 

Megatron gives the strap of his shield one last tug on his arm. “Do not start crying.” 

“Eh.” Impactor tosses the stick he just finished shaping back and forth between his hands, weighing where his grip had the best balance. “No promises.” 

Soundwave steps into place behind Megatron, the three of them having made their own quasi-arena outside of the cave they all camped in the night before. It was rather damp inside and there was the occasional shrill screech and clicks of cyberbats flying overhead with their, large glowing optics blurring past over helm, but it kept them all from the nightly chilled breeze that would work its way through the trees. 

Soundwave gripped the stick “sword” Impactor had fashioned for them, managing to make it somewhat balanced at its crude hilt. The mecha favored rather light weaponry while fighting, surviving, in the Pits. Two long, single-edge swords had been their preference, though both of their weapons were more than likely in the hands of some other gladiator now if the blades were not rusting somewhere.

They placed both their hands of the “grip” of their weapon and stepped back to a semblance of a fighting stance, “sword” held poised towards Megatron. 

Impactor took suit, squaring his peds. 

The gray mech regarded his two adversaries with a tracing gaze, sizing them up and waiting for their slightest flinch. 

Soundwave strikes first, darting forward on agile legs. 

Out of habit, Megatron swings with his stick to block the blow, requiring only a second to forget the shield strung to his own arm. 

Soundwave backs away. “Use the shield.” 

“You’ve got it for a reason, son,” Impactor adds, now leaning on his “weapon” to watch. 

Megatron grumbles. “Again.” 

Soundwave rolls their shoulders and strikes again, sidestepping once so not to be coming from the same angle. 

Megatron raises his shield and catches Soundwave’s stick on its corner. Soundwave bounds backward. 

“The brunt of the shield!” Impactor corrects. “You’ll just make their sword slide down and hack your leg.” 

Megatron looks back to glare at him shortly, the corner of his mouth twisting into a frown. He turns back to Soundwave and nods. “Again.”

Soundwave sets a hand on their hip. 

Megatron’s optics soften. “Please.” 

Impactor joined them from the second balcony later, trading turns with Soundwave to counter Megatron’s attention. 

It was reminiscent of training in Kaon, utilizing various creative practice weapons in the arenas with other gladiators spaced about the sanded floor. One of the intentions was to prompt mecha to use other weaponry they would otherwise not pick up from the armories, but doing so also had the inadvertent effect of enhancing the bonds between the mecha who lived in the respective Pits interspersed about Kaon. 

Such was how Megatron and Soundwave met, dared to fight each other during training. The younger mech was new, having just signed their contract, and other gladiators observed their divergent and distinctly opposing style from the Pit’s rising headliner. The femme appointed as the match’s arbiter - the ironic title for referees - called a draw about nearly twenty minutes of true struggle between the two, ending their fight at the mechas’ growing exhaustion. Sparing together afterward gradually revealed how Megatron and Soundwave fringed on being equally matched, Megatron’s strength and Soundwave’s speed meeting somewhere within a dimensional spectrum of skill, confidence, and resolve to not allow the other to have the better. 

Little had changed even now, despite Soundwave’s declination in body mass over the past year. They caught Megatron several times on the torso and shoulders, even after frustration caused him to toss the shield aside. 

Impactor, with all his visible strength, moved far slower than Soundwave yet Megatron has to hold himself steady and not get knocked off his balance once he steps in.

The older mech broke many of his opponent’s weapons in the Pits, one occurrence resulting in the brutality ending short when the shard of the gladiator’s broken blade whistled past. The mech grabbed at his throat and fell dead, energon pouring from his neck where his main fuel line to his processor had been slashed by the flying debris. 

Megatron could still picture the astounded confusion in Impactor’s optics, the mech taking a moment to put together what had happened as his opponent lied crumpled on the ground. 

“So, will you be fighting with a shield or not?” Impactor asks, tossing his stick next to his sleeping mat once they decided to halt training for the day. 

They had made progress, in the least, at Megatron utilizing his shield, but he would certainly have some bruising come morning. 

Soundwave considers the chips taken out of their “sword”. “ _Yes_ , at least into the arena…” 

Megatron picks up and dusts off the shield, feeling the first inklings of a tension ache in the front of his processor. 

… 

Two mecha are sitting outside of the first buildings one passes on entering the village - a small inn with a porch and a recently patched roof that shares a wall with the tailor’s shop next door. A cup of cooling energon is on either side of the mecha’s table, one less full of a drink than the other. Over their helms are hoods trimmed with fine, silver thread, the fabric covering the top portion of their faces not concealed in shadow by their masks. 

Megatron does not linger his optics on them too long, knowing mecha who bother with concealing themselves in such a manner would probably not be keen about feeling another’s gaze on their backs. 

Impactor drives the wagon into the village’s perimeter, slowing Loom down to give Megatron and Soundwave both time to inspect merchants and shops for supplies. 

Soundwave has Impactor stop and enters into a small general store. They come back out to wave Megatron in and the larger mech has to duck down to step in through the from door. 

They bring him to a small shelf of powder pigments arranged by color. 

“Which?” the shorter mecha says. 

Megatron puts his hands in his trouser pockets and leans down to see the various colors. They are all of various prices, red being the most expensive and black being the cheapest. He picks one next to the blue pigment and then a bag of black. 

“These. Now what else?” he asks Soundwave. 

The mecha walks down the aisle to the fabric shelves and thumbs at the corners to feel the texture. They tilt their helm. “There will be better in Rodion,” they say, hushing their voice so the store’s clerk wouldn’t hear them. They do, however, grab a few more rolls of thread.

Megatron nods and Soundwave purchases the pigment and thread from the clerk along with enough energon to hold them over for the next week between this village and the next. Concentrated solids that could be consumed quickly and provide the same energy in a few bites as an entire cube. 

Megatron carries the provisions to the wagon and spots the same two mecha at the inn passing by them, heading on down the road with packs strapped onto their backs. Megatron looks after them, spying the swords on their belts and what looks to be a shield attached to the taller’s pack. It is shrouded in brown cloth, hiding the design that may lie underneath. 

“Where do you suppose they’re from?” Impactor asks as he steps down from the wagon to switch his spot with Megatron. 

Soundwave peeks around to look. “I do not recognize their colors. Appears that they may not want anyone to.” 

“Probably on their way to Rodion,” Megatron says, taking Loom’s reins to get the equin walking again. 

“Just the two?” Impactor questions. “Primus, so Caliber wasn’t the only broke knight.” 

…

At camp that night while Impactor is asleep - snoring through his bent nose - and Soundwave is tailoring the sleeve of one of Caliber’s tunics, Megatron uses a book to have a hard surface while he sketches on the back of an old parchment. 

Once and a while he glances up to Soundwave, the mecha’s face illuminated by their crackling fire. The night air was cooler than it had been the previous few and they both opted to sit closer to the flame and put coats on to keep their warmth insulated.

Megatron did not profess himself to be talented in any respects. All that he knew had been what experiences and observations had taught him and although he could confess himself to be skilled in several matters, one of them was surely not the arts outside of a paper and utensil. A piece of charcoal served as his stylus as he made another mark on the page; a strict line that once he raised his helm higher, somehow resembled the shape of a crude optic. 

He glanced back up to Soundwave and continued sketching. 

…

Two days later they stopped to the side of the road to realign one of the wheels to the wagon. It had begun to wobble on its axle the day before and Impactor did not want to risk traveling further. But repairs required them to unload the wagon in order to lift and take the wheel off and back on. 

“Put a new wagon on the list of expenditures,” Impactor huffs while he holds the wagon up with Megatron. Soundwave is reattaching the wheel to the axle and hammering the hubcap back.

“On,” Soundwave says after one last tug. 

The two larger mechs set the wagon down with a rattle and step back, taking up the other side of the road to see how the wagon sits. 

Impactor rubs the back of his neck. “Aright, let’s see how long that… holds.” 

His voice fades as a mech pedsteps approach them on the road. 

“Good morning,” the mech greets, waving a once well-polished hand and passing between the small group. Their faces all blank, his tone suggesting that the mech may have not been aware that he was without a strip of clothing on save for a single pair of what looked to be broken goggles on his helm. 

Impactor sets his hands on his hips. “Sir!”

The mech turns around and Soundwave turns away. 

“Yes?” the apparent naturalist replies, setting a hand on his own hip to partially mirror Impactor. His frame is grimmy, spotted with dirt and there are still-oozing gashes on his gray shoulder and both knees plates. He brushes his chest, flicking a speck he felt off of his crimson plating. “How are you?” 

Megatron crosses his arms and shakes his helm. There could only be a handful of reasons for a mech to be in such condition. “What are you doing?” 

He looks down at his bare, dirtied peds and back up to them. “Unfortunately, I am walking. Though trudging might be a better word.” 

Megatron arches a brow. “What?” 

“Trudging? You know, to trudge?” The mech gives them each a lingering glance at their silence and turns back around, showing the mecha his back once again as he continues forward. “To trudge: it is a slow… _melancholic_ yet _determined_ walk of a mecha who has nothing left in life except to simply persist onward. The line is to ‘ _fly_ onward’ but -” he does a slow twirl around, hands outstretched to point towards nothing, “-alas.” 

“Were you robbed?” Megatron asks. 

The mech laughs shortly and turns to give them his profile. He lifts a hand to inspect taloned fingers. “Well yes, but then at the same time, a resounding, _thundering_ no. I’ve recently resigned myself into a sort of involuntary vow of destitution to put it… shortly But!” he exclaims, pointing a finger towards the sky and turning back around to slowly _trudge_ onward, “on the brighter side of the sun, _trudging_ does represent pride; pride and purpose and faith in all things good and unholy such as myself,” he gestures to his finely angled - through bruised - faceplate and looks onward to the atmosphere, “that one day I will not be suffering my currently tribu - _fuck_! Dammit!” 

The mech stops and lifts his ped upward to pull a splinter from its underside. “...Tribulations.” 

“Who the hell are you?” Impactor asks, the three of them having followed the mech shortly in order to hear. 

The mech tosses the splinter aside, a blue pinprick of energon on its tip. 

“I am a seeker,” he says simply, pointing to his goggles as if they're presents should make it obvious. Though perhaps he was pointing to his helm. “A Vosian. A cartographer. My creator wanted me named after a star and my sire was cursed with imagination, and thus my name is Starscream... Currently I profess to be a writer.” 

Megatron, Impactor, and Soundwave all give each other glances. 

“What sort of writing?” Impactor dares.

Starscream shrugs. “For a shanix I can delineate you anything; summons, warrants, a conjunx certificate, patents of nobility, the first edition of the Covenant of Primus -” 

Megatron gaze lifts. 

“So you’re the bastard who wrote that up?” Impactor jests. 

Starscream holds up scraped hands. “You’ve found me.” 

“You said patents?” Megatron inquires. 

Starscream’s brow lifts curiously as he looks him up and down, eyeing the recently tailored, humble tunic the mech wore. “Yes, I surely did… And you three happen to be?”

Megatron face blanks once again. “Well… My name is Sir Tronus of Helex and these are my servants, Spinster of... Helex,” he says, setting a hand on Impactor’s chest with a glare at the mech conveying _do not ruin this_ when he looks at him in offense, “and Blaster of Tesarus.” 

Starscream maintains his arched brow and a semblance of a smile quirks at the corner of his split lip. “And I’m the Winglord of Vos, pleasure meeting you,” he says, holding out a hand and smiling with ironically perfect, sharp denta gleaming. “Or perhaps I’m Zeta. I’m always forgett _ingh!”_

Megatron sighs and draws his knife from his belt with a click, the Vosian’s red optics turn wide as the sun as his hand is smacked away and the tip of the knife is placed against his throat. He stumbles back and falls to the grass on the side of the road, holding up a hand when the larger mech kneels down in front of him with blue optics glaring. 

“Hold your tongue or I will unburden you of it. Perhaps it put you in such a state.” 

Starscream holds up a hand and lets a brief, hysterical laugh. He smiles innocently and presses the back of his hand to Megatron’s, turning the knife away. “Now, Sir Tronus, _that_ about you I do believe.” 

Megatron searches the mech’s face, lingering over him a moment longer to enhance the threat, then stands back up and offers Starscream a hand. 

“You said you’re a seeker?” Impactor scoffs, turning back to the wagon with Soundwave and Megatron. 

Starscream brushes himself off and looks down the road. “I surely did, _Spinster_. And you all are off to bash some armor at the tournament, yes? Looks about your profession.” 

“Road: leads to Rodion,” Soundwave says. 

Starscream looks at his shoulder to see if it is still leaking energon or if the wound had reopened during his fall. “Yes, yes it does. Though I’ve heard from an acquaintance that they are limiting eligibility in Rodion.” 

Megatron slows his pace. 

“Noble spark must be established on either side of a knight’s family for three generations,” Starscream continues, crossing his arms and looking up towards the sky. “A mecha must provide their patents of nobility to be added to the roster.” 

Megatron turns around to face the Vosian once again, glowering down at him who dared to smirk back. 

“Here,” Starscream begins, sharp features softening. “All I shall ask is you give me a pair of clothes. I know I eclipse the moon in beauty but I’d rather mine not be out any longer. And for the love of everything good and unholy, spare me some energon, let me sleep in that wagon for a spell and you shall have your patents as long as you’ve enough to spare for parchment I can scribble it down on.” He gives his helm a short bow. “Lord Tronus.” 

Impactor was already _trudging_ back to the wagon, knowing his younger compatriots' answer to Sir Nude’s offer. 

…

Starscream eats the solid energon with surprising genteel, breaking bits cleanly off and placing them in his mouth. The mech was surely starving, but it seems he had an urge to hold on to some thread of dignity about him and that just so happens to manifest in his eating manners. He sits next to Soundwave on the wagon and periodically looks up towards the sky while chewing. 

“So. What are our _real_ names?” he finally asks, brushing his hands off over the side of the wagon. 

“Have we gotten to that point yet?” Impactor raises, looking back to the mech sitting beside Soundwave on the wagon. 

Starscream shrugs and crosses his trousered legs at the knee. He is of slim build and so Soundwave generously lent the mech a pair of their own trousers. They didn’t have a tunic to spare, but Starscream didn’t seem to have any qualms about just wearing their spare, button-less jacket that left the center of his chest and abdomen exposed. 

“I suppose not,” the seeker says. “Though you’ve now seen more of me than all my recent liaisons combined.” 

Megatron looks over at Impactor’s frown, the stocky mech remaining silent beside him. 

“My name is Megatron. Of Tarn,” he begins.

“Soundwave,” Soundwave says, letting go of Loom’s reigns to cordially offer the mech their hand, “of Kaon.” 

Starscream shakes it with the respectful tilt of his helm. “And you are?” he says, raising his voice lest Impactor not hear him while walking ten average ped-lengths away. 

“Impactor,” the yellow and faded purple helmed mech says, not turning to face him. “Also of Tarn.” 

Starscream sets an elbow on his knee and props his chin on his palm, digging a hole via ruby optics into the back of the mech’s helm he knows he’ll need to do the most working around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movie, A Knight's Tale, that I am writing this fic as a love letter too was also quite literally written as a love letter to the poet and writer Chaucer. Thus, Chaucer's lines are perfect and I could only manipulate them so far in my quest to, you know, make them Starscream's. 
> 
> Also, I am working on art for the characters. Megatron will probably be done first and then I see Starscream and Soundwave happening second.


End file.
